


I'll See Your Heart & I'll Raise You Mine

by squishyflamingo



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Humanity (Good Omens), F/M, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), it's the end of the world as we know it sort of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22039795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squishyflamingo/pseuds/squishyflamingo
Summary: What's with the angel and what's with the devilThey keep swapping shoulders and I can't tell which from which"Will you be my Kris kindle? Will you be my better nature?"Says one to the other but I think they're only showing off
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Anathema Device
Kudos: 5





	I'll See Your Heart & I'll Raise You Mine

Golem. “My light”, “raw” material.

The angels, they were Her light, her “raw” material - unrefined, both pure and flawed. On them she etched “truth” using only the most delicate of instruments to carve each character, each letter, as that is what they would represent forever and always.

Her truth.

But often times the truth can forget itself, and get lost in the weeds. In the pitch, where no illumination can survive.

\----

Crowley pried his eyelids open, lashes brushing supple, beige cotton of the coat he was holding onto like an anchor. He noticed the dark ichor of his nails digging in, and worried for a second that they would leave a stain.

Aziraphale would be inconsolable.

He was about to pull away, so the ashiness of him would not sully the angel’s precious immaculate self. His delicious tannins, notes of sunbeams, crisp aftertaste.

As if sensing this the Principality held on tighter, almost to cleave them to one another, and the fallen angel’s chest stuttered. Fastidiously clean and manicured nails sought the darkest parts of him.

In the vague direction of Jasmine Cottage the front door opened, and a young man that sometimes ran from a room after flicking the last light switch off came outside brandishing a weapon.

Well. His new girlfriend’s dowling rods. Close enough. Close enough Witchfinder, close enough hero, close enough boyfriend, that was Newton Pulsifer.

Newt's rain-wet palms wrung around the two bits of metal in a vaguely cricket bat-like stance, and he barely suppressed a squeal as one rod flipped around and smacked the back of his head.

No one saw that.

Anathema finally came out as well, head raised high and uncaring about the storm. She was confident of the protection bottle she’d buried at the farthest corner of the property would do its job - and coincidentally, that is where the disturbance seemed to be coming from.

The garden’s hedgerow. 

But oh. She threw out an arm in front of Newton, eyes widening in shock. It was so bright, so incredibly ethereal, she could not quite believe what she was witnessing other than it was _good_ and it was _love_ , a lens flare that nearly blinded her senses until thankfully dimming to a soft glow.

Wings, they were wings - large, downy and maybe a tad unkempt, but she had to stop herself from running over to touch, press her face there.

It was such a glorious thing, and shaking as she was, she missed the other figure stood nearby, looking straight at her.

That is, until the figure approached both of them, producing an umbrella to shield them from the downpour.

The couple jumped, Newt more-so than Anathema. The young witch swore that even though they were not as visible or solid on this side of reality, a faint outline of wings shimmered behind the intruder (who looked no older than she).

Ambriel smiled as disarmingly as she could, understanding that both of these humans had seen and come to understand some fairly remarkable things in the last few weeks that reaffirmed their credence in the cosmic workings of the universe, or shook them entirely.

“If it’s not too much of an imposition, may we come in?”

\----

Aziraphale really had no need for the tartan Sherpa blanket around his shoulders - he'd been dry in an instant once they'd gotten inside the quaint cottage, but as Crowley sat next to him on a small love seat underneath it, long, tapered fingers enfolding his, it felt like they were safe.

Actually safe from retribution of Upstairs and Downstairs, as if their body swap had done its job to deter them, but this blanket was a shield. A shelter to house newly re-acquainted feelings and memories, a poultice for reopened wounds.

Crowley is so very warm, like he’s a hearth and the angel had been hatefully cold, abandoned since he had put the last stone back in the Garden's Wall, barely scraping by whatever meager scrap Heaven had tossed him throughout several millennia. And now he’s finally _home_.

How had he been so fortunate to come out of this relatively unscathed? He wasn't worth it. Worse things had happened to much better people.

It took some adjusting, allowing his own happiness that not even a lingonberry Swedish pancake in Stockholm or mascarpone and fresh fruit filled crepes in Paris could compare to.

A happiness shared, divided, served at the ideal temperature so he could hold it on his tongue, let it melt with Crowley watching across the table. Savor it. No rush.

His thoughts drifted as he watched Ambriel take the lion’s share of explaining why the angel and demon Anathema Device’s ancestor had mentioned in her Armageddoesn't-happen prophecies were back in Tadfield, and who she herself was, over Yorkshire Gold tea Anathema hadn’t realized she had in her cupboards (because she hadn’t up until the otherworldly creatures had arrived).

The charming Newton Pulsifer sat next to the witch, doing a great impression of a big-eyed Precious Moments doll, clutching his own mug so tightly, as if it were keeping himself from shattering on the rocks of incredulousness.

Aziraphale smiled, a tucked away pleasure, tickled that the descendant of a Witchfinder and a witch had been brought together in the Grand Scheme of things.

How positively Shakespearean.

His fingers reflexively tightened around Crowley’s; the demon turned toward him as if he had forgotten that this wasn't quite the norm. No more furtive secret-keeping about their fraternisation.

And, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Aziraphale laid his head on his friend’s shoulder. Is this what true exhaustion was? The human race was magnificent; how could they carry this sort of burden for more than a microsecond without unraveling at carefully stitched seams? 

Crowley's pointy chin nestled in the crown of his hair, and surely that was an uncomfortable position. He selfishly hoped he wouldn't pull away.

They were sorely overdue to have The Talk. In fact, that should have happened during the week leading up to Ambriel dropping in. Thankfully, his companion agreed to put it on the back-burner for now.

Despite this, the Principality found himself murmuring for Crowley’s ears only, “I’m...stupefied with how it all played out so perfectly. You and I, Miss Device, the Pulsifer lad, the children...Madame Tracey, Sergeant Shadwell, Ambriel. I always believed, fervently wanted to believe. It really is quite--”

“Don't you dare say the eff word,” the Tempter groused, stirring to lip a glass of gin that Anathema had bullied him into taking, and Aziraphale witnessed as the demon went rather boneless on the couch, revealing a tease of skin.

Then the angel scoffed to disguise a needy sound.

“'Eff word'? Goodness, surely you don’t mean fu-”

“I mean INE _FF_ ABLE, oh my Gggh-Ssff, you got me to say it. Whhhy...”

Aziraphale could not contain himself, adoring that he could cause such innocuous frustration in the infernal thing sat next to him. Turnabout was most definitely fair play.

Crowley had been doing it to him since the Beginning.

So he giggled at a rather inappropriate moment, when there was so much they’ve just remembered about each other, that he’d glimpsed Crowley’s angelic past, that he’d been an integral part of it. So much unsaid.

That _something wicked this way comes_. It didn’t matter right then. Not like it had in Egypt, in Babylon, the Holy Crusades.

The demon struggled to respond to such strange behavior, struggled to ask him what was so funny, wanting to mask the emotion welling up behind his missing sunglasses (were they still outside?). Aziraphale was too acquainted with these instances where his dearest friend wanted to hide.

Hiding is what they were the best at, wasn't it? Blessings and temptations should have been their expertise. Clandestine meetings replaced altercations, tiny acts of rebellion (that no one dared actually to refer as rebellion) lined the Pandora's box of their Arrangement. 

Restless, Crowley carefully extracted his hand from Aziraphale's, and even when they both sighed at the minor loss he went and sat at the small table, next to Ambriel, who looked pleasantly surprised.

In all honesty, _Aziraphale_ was pleasantly surprised. They had history with her, it seemed, but he didn’t dare think Crowley would fall into a semblance of familiarity in such a short time.

The Principality, awash with a subtle brush of love, tugged at his sleeve to conceal his heart.

Anathema turned her full attention to the Tempter of Original Sin with a naked sort of curiousness that did not broadcast feeling at all threatened by the demonic entity that had joined their discussion. 

Newton, however, inhaled his tea down the wrong pipe. He'd been doing so well.

Aziraphale marveled at Anathema. This young woman, reluctant hostess to a menagerie of the supernatural, whom had steadfastly followed a path laid before her, written out by someone she’d never met. A giant leap of faith that biblical scholars, jaded professors and philosophers would chomp at the bit to take apart line by line. 

“Pay no attention to the man with the funny eyes - continue.” Crowley slammed down the rest of his gin.

Aziraphale found himself flustered at the definitive bob of his Adam’s apple.

“I happen to find them fascinating,” Anathema murmured, sipping her own tea delicately. Her newly minted boyfriend shifted next to her, but a slender hand stroked across his in reassurance she was just paying a compliment, winking at Aziraphale.

Good Lord.

Her insinuating wink was definitely on docket for The Talk. 

_ Later, Aziraphale, later. _

“I don't frighten you?"

"I wasn’t afraid of the Antichrist." The modern occultist’s own bottomless irises flashed at Crowley. Challenging. "He's a good kid. You're alike, you and Adam. Full of good questions, just on the wrong side of the debate table."

Aziraphale hadn't even thought of that himself. From what he knew of Adam Young, which was sadly very little before he’d raised Sargeant Shadwell’s ridiculous weapon to destroy a child, was he had quite an inquisitive nature. Firm in his beliefs, and not quiet about it.

After a second to process this minor epiphany about himself, curbing a biting comment back more out of habit than anything, Crowley nudged Ambriel, “You said you had Intel. Go on, Bond, don’t leave us gagging for it.”

The Guardian angel had been observing their back-and-forth good-humouredly, but her mood shifted. Sifted, trickle-down effect into a business-like solemnity.

“I heard God. I heard Her voice for the first time in several millennia, in the dark.”

Aziraphale’s feet touched an old area rug and hardwood floor, drawn as a moth to a flame in disbelief.

Crowley didn’t even turn around, carving a space for him with another chair between himself and Ambriel. He floated down onto it, feeling as light as a feather, buoyed by her claim. “I would ask if you were positive, but that is not really something you can mistake as an angel, is it?”

“No...I’d sought Her out so long while in Heaven, of course it would have been one of the few times I was answering someone’s call for guidance on Earth that She chose to speak to me.”

Newton’s gaze bounced back and forth between the three strange table fellows. “And She’s not spoken to you two in...um…”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but find the young man’s acceptance of God being referred to as She soothing for his jumpy nerves, even if his question warranted a pang of sadness. Bless. “Not since the Beginning, my dear boy.”

Crowley elected to remain mum on that.

Anathema continued eating them up like an eager academic. She had admitted at length that Agnes Nutter had bestowed her a second volume of her prophecies, but had... destroyed it (Aziraphale was slowly coming to terms with this, it had come as a significant blow). Anything that happened from here on out was not dictated by something a ghost had divined. She was grateful for Agnus, but continued on her own journey sans edicts.

‘Our Side.’

Will wonders never cease, though, that God favoured Ambriel.

**And the Lord spake unto the Angel that guarded the eastern gate, saying 'Where is the flaming sword that was given unto thee?' And the Angel said, 'I had it here only a moment ago, I must have put it down some where, forget my own head next.'**

A lie. The last thing he’d said to the Creator was a lie. It was no surprise She’d never come before him again he thought fretfully, waiting for what else the other angel would tell them next.

“It was as if she was playing reverse telephone with her own words. Whispering the real version of what the Apostle wrote in Revelations. I wanted to ask her to wait, but asking Her to slow down seemed, well…” Crowley let out a harsh laugh against his knotted fingers at Ambriel’s awkward pause, causing Aziraphale to wince, “The 12 tribes of Israel meant...12 Princes. 12 angels that will come together. For a century I have been trying so hard to present my case to the others without First Hierarchy finding out, though...not many have heard my call. It'll have to do, because what She told me about the real battle we have to prepare for--"

“You...you called them -- you summoned angels -- where? _Here_?” Aziraphale tried desperately to keep himself sounding as calm as possible whilst experiencing a whiplash of data. His redundant lungs were balloons overfilled with helium, threatening to drift off. No, no need to be all in a tizzy. There was no reason for unnecessary theatrics - if there were more angels coming surely she had taken necessary precautions.

Unfortunately, Crowley was a histrionic spectacle.

"You fucking berk,” the demon hissed, glare as sharp as shards of amber, "you'll bring all of them down on usss like a sswarm of hungry vulturesss! Are you that naive, or were those memoriess you showed me even real--"

Ambriel thrust out her right arm at Crowley, almost punching Aziraphale in the process, lacy sleeves rolled up to expose glowing cerulean marks under the haze of vintage lamps.

"Only those that I want to find me can find me. The circle at the bookshop was for Aziraphale's safety. And Miss Device has done an admirable job with protections in place around her cottage."

The marks were old, complicated, and most likely irreversible. Aziraphale had seen nothing like them since Mesopotamia, when demons ran rampant, so much more brash, bold, parading as Eldritch gods, and any angel stationed on Earth had to be careful. Smiting was highly encouraged at first, though it did not mesh well with Her Plan. So keeping a low profile was preferred in the end.

But this was something to have in or around a structure, like blood above a door, to have anything the caster perceived as evil pass over. The Guardian had it etched into her corporation, gaze unflinching in the wake of Crowley's disparaging tone.

At some point they both stood up to face one another - this is what Aziraphale had dreaded back in London. He cannot move, frozen in place, not knowing where to start. He had once been Guardian of the Eastern Gate, but he cannot stop planets from orbiting or meteors from crashing into each other!

"I heard Her and I will find out if it was true or I'll fucking cease to exist trying before the world does. The angels that agreed to be apart of this are coming here. Anathema knows I wouldn’t--"

As if summoned Anathema was right there, covering the angelic sigils that seemed to leave scorch marks against everyone’s senses, but it's Crowley she addressed evenly, "Let's go into the kitchen. I'll top up that drink.”

Again, thank the Maker for Anathema Device. What a formidable force. Crowley set his jaw tightly as he was led away.

Aziraphale ached for him, ached for his friend who wanted to do what he could to keep those he cared about from harm, even if it was from himself.

Ambriel took the other angel's previous place on the cosy love seat, appearing very small, like a wounded animal.

When the tense silence didn't let up Newton excused himself to the kitchen as well.

_Tick tock tick_ \-- an old wall-mounted clock assured the Principality that after five minutes he'd yet to hear anything too worrying coming from that direction, except indiscernible murmurs accompanied by the susurrus of rainfall outside. Once upon another lifetime Crowley had enjoyed making friends that weren't involved in whatever mischief Hell had him assigned to until mortality really took its toll on the demon's psyche.

Particularly when the gossamer life thread of Leonardo Di Vinci's was measured and cut by Fate. Aziraphale had only seen Crowley sink so low a handful of other times in history. The Ark, Spain...their quarrel in 1862...

Who would have guessed that the greatest torment for a devil to experience was losing the beautifully imperfect worlds he had been offered, requiring no enticement on his part.

About ten minutes later Aziraphale could distinctly make out Crowley's cackle, "The man from Del Monte - he say 'YES'!"

"Del Monte? Like the canned pineapple and peaches?"

"Oh, I remember those commercials! Gosh, it's been twenty or so years - they were so bloody strange. Did they never get played in America, Anathema?”

“Brian Jackson; absolute legend."

A perfect distraction tactic - pop culture references that Aziraphale didn't know anything about. Really, he should not be expected to be a moderator in these types of situations. 

His attention was brought back to the other angel, crossing the room to ask if he could join her.

Ambriel’s knees tucked closer to her chin, staring into the middle distance. 

He perched on the seat anyhow, chest tight.

"I do not mean to pry, but...as we used to be quite close I...well, what I'm trying to say is, I don’t mean to come across as presumptuous or impetuous about how you might used to confide in me. And I wanted to ask...You said you heard God speak to you ‘in the dark?’"

The Almighty did often use moments of weakness, rock-bottom, absolute destitution, to reach from beyond veil, to patiently hover in the eaves for signs of penance, repentance, the setting aside of ego to accept Grace, and as the lower ranking messenger spoke up Aziraphale knew his assumptions to be correct. 

"I became Guardian angel to a young woman who would blossom into an influential writer. She was Christened Marguerite. Later her friends and I called her John."

“Radcylffe Hall,” Aziraphale breathed, full of empathy. Oh, he’d known her - known of her, her works - especially _The Well of Loneliness_.

His mouth shaped over familiar words that he had read so many times there may well be an emblazoned thumbprint on that particular page, his fingertips constantly bookmarked at the novel’s last sentence for 100 years. He had read Woolf, Plath, Wilde, Baldwin, Wheatley, Stein, Whitman with so many others pouring out unadulterated conviction and ardour and pain, but the character Stephen Gordon’s plea to God: "Give us also the right to our existence” had struck such a cord in him, leaving a beautifully painful note that now made up the composition of his immortal soul.

“I appeared as a student of her stepfather, an amateur singer…It was the longest I had ever made an Effort as one gender, even after my time with Lady Nijo,” Ambriel said, not looking at him. “And as I came to John identifying as a woman she explained to me her identification as an ‘invert’. That’s why I had come to Earth, you see. As she matured and grew she had prayed for guidance as she wrote about her heart’s deepest desires...” The angel could not keep going, hands hiding her shame.

Radcylffe Hall was known for having several lovers and affairs up until she died. She touched many, and was bright, well-spoken, esteemed in parallel to being feared, ostracised, loathed. Aziraphale was not naive enough to miss the reverence in his fellow heavenly creation’s tone.

He knew part of him had quite fretfully loved Oscar Wilde, his limitless candor, uncompromising in himself and his work. Unapologetically putting pen to paper and key to ribbon about what he thought was right. 

The Guardian of Earth had also been a close (and only) male confidant to ease the pure heart of one Ann Walker, who had knelt in supplication so ardently after she had met and fallen in love with one Anne Lister. Ah, perhaps he had been treading in Ambriel's territory then, swooped in with utmost selfish intentions, but would never forget when Crowley and his paths crossed. The demon claimed to be meddling with the resurgence of coal pits in the North (it was always coal, fossil fuels, always something), lending Lister his knowledge when there were no other men with a knack for such business that she trusted.

And they both had been in attendance as witnesses to their secret matrimony, Crowley stood outside on the unconsecrated ground of Goodramgate (“My relationship with God is between Her and I; not with the Church”), when the women took communion on Easter Sunday, 1834, at the Holy Trinity Church in York. 

Afterwards the angel and demon bestowed the newly married couple earnest felicitations (possibly a miracle or two as a wedding gift), parted ways with them and gravitated closer to one another down cobblestone streets. Tried to not recall when Heaven reigned fire and brimstone on Sodom and Gomorrah.

These people had been living their truths, where the angel felt like his own truth was woefully muddled.

Undoubtedly Ambriel faced a similar crisis of faith.

“Sorrow takes its own path at its own pace,” Aziraphale whispered, and to his shock the Guardian angel threw herself at him, finding sanctuary in his chest, the worry-stone worn waistcoat that had given him years of comfort.

Poor dear. He’d meant to ask if she had retained all of her memories from their previous friendship, trudging through existence to bear the load of it alone. Pasting on a friendly facade, reliving thousands of incarnations touching those needing a guide, a protector, only to lose them over and over…

He carded through her curls, like a father might their daughter. It was an echo of affection, a distant recollection as effervescent as champagne bubbles. The respite was short lived as she went rigid as a bloodhound that’d caught wind of a fox’s scent. But he’d felt it too - a shift of energy, something celestial. Peaceful. Of lavender and violets.

The rain had stopped.

Ambriel extracted herself and took off in a blip, passed Newt as he was bravely venturing back into the living room with a Ribena, Anathema and Crowley remaining in the kitchen, both staring at the front door. They felt it as well, in their own way, hackles raised and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

_Blasted sword had gone back with the International Express Man_ , Aziraphale sighed, hand clenching around nothing. What kind of gentleman would he be if he let her go out there without backup?

_No limits, old boy. Not today._ He stopped Crowley's protests with a shake of his head, bolstered by a trembling bloom of tenderness underneath his ribs.

The Principality boggled at what awaited him outside.

Muriel. The Dominion of Peace.

Aziraphale’s hesitancy disappeared, and he could not hold himself back even if he wanted to, striding so quickly toward the higher ranking angel Crowley’s half-garbled shout didn't quite meet his ears. He clasped arms with Muriel, and her smile was so sincere. He was flooded with crystalline harmony. 

“Do Ambriel's marks really prevent Gabriel from knowing you’re here, my dear?”

The Dominion of Peace was sparingly allowed out of Heaven, left to be a caged pet dove for Gabriel’s office, in a manner of speaking. They had controlled her obsessively; a white flag kept folded away until their say so.

Lest you forget, Aziraphale, another reminder that it was never just YOU that has suffered.

“They really do, he doesn't know,” she said, so mellow, so strong. Her russet hair was styled in finger waves, heart-shaped face not giving away her life as a captive. The epitome of conviction.

Then he finally saw them, the other angels, two of them that Ambriel was hugging, whispering to, hands fluttering toward him and…

Crowley.

The occult being was all but plastered to the small porch column at the cottage’s entrance, shrinking and folding in on himself the longer he was in the presence of so many of his old...brood so soon after their body swap. So soon after their greatest magic trick, their prestige.

_ Red-headed step-child, black sheep, vile snake -- _

Aziraphale knew Crowley wasn’t speaking, but it was there in the shapes of his friend’s body, taut lines riddled with anxiety, trepidation in his angles. But not out of fear, no. He held himself back from launching at the lot, striking them with venomous fangs bared.

He thought Aziraphale was still in danger, and the Principality wanted to assuage his worries again, if the higher ranking angel hadn't already approached the demon.

Crowley's mortal trappings were lithe, but tall, and when he wanted to he could impress upon someone that he was not to be trifled with (as man, woman or in-between). Muriel was taller still, but did not seek to intimidate - just her elegant hand offered toward her old colleague, her brother, as if to take the weight of him, and forever stretched out the selfless offer as Aziraphale's nonexistent breath hitched.

_ My sweetness, she will not hurt you, she does not see you that way, I swear. _

__

The demon glanced at him, expression searching. If no one else trust ME. But Crowley almost didn't accept it, his obstinace still lined with sharp teeth. At last he bowed his head to her, baring his vulnerability.

Her touch just along the serpent mark on his temple must have done something extraordinary, his knees bucking.

Aziraphale raced over, falling, falling to catch Crowley so he did not hit the grass. Muriel stepped aside to reassure him, "It will not last. Even though the roots of him are of our kind…there is a part of him that fights the quieting I’ve brought his tortured mind." A regretful admission.

_ Fights it? _

“He doesn't believe he deserves it.”

**_“Unforgivable, that’s what I am.”_ **

_ We have too much to talk about my dear, too much left unsaid. Quite a pair we make, darling. What have the two of us really been doing these past 6,000 years? _

The Principality bumped his forehead against the unconscious Tempter's, and he found Ambriel out of his peripheral. “Please tell us everything else She said, my dear. And do not spare any details.”

Ere the first grief was born 

Love was. 

And after griefs are gone 

Love still shall triumph on. 

Ere the first grief was born 

Love was. 

In Eden grief became 

Love's slave. 

For in the dust and woe 

Lost Adam still could know 

Fond recompense, and so 

Did grief become Love's slave.


End file.
